


aftermath

by canticle



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Spoilers, post-casino spoilers, post-interrogation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-07 19:33:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11065653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canticle/pseuds/canticle
Summary: “Don’t expect to walk out of here in one piece,” they’d said, and laughed.He hadn’t.And he didn’t.





	1. Sae

**Author's Note:**

> your humble ficcer is stuck at an airport for the next however long it takes for the flight to come in! have some feels.

How Sae gets the kid out of the building without anyone noticing them will forever be a mystery to her.

  
He’s got a brave front on, the dregs of a villainous smirk still lingering around the corners of his mouth, but he’s also staggering with every step to the point that she has to hook her arm under his shoulders for extra support. He makes a noise like he’s been punched when he gets the weight off his bad leg, leaning into her hard enough to make her stagger and catch her balance.

  
What the hell did they do to him?

  
He’s got bruises on top of bruises on every patch of skin she can see, livid purple under the harsh fluorescents of the parking garage. When her arm tightens around his waist in the elevator to keep him upright his skin shivers, and she can see the beads of sweat forming along his temples. But he doesn’t complain, just closes his eyes and leans his face against the cool metal wall.

  
So she doesn’t say anything either, just keeps her arm around him.

  
The white of his turtleneck is stained with blood, probably from the split lip and the scrapes across his cheek. Sae has seen worse in her time as a prosecutor, but those were on rough and rumble types.

  
Not high school boys.

  
Not _children_ , like her sister.

  
By the time they get down to her car (taking the long route to avoid the cameras) his breathing is erratic. When she looks closer, she sees his pupils are two different sizes. “Hold on,” she says tersely, fumbling for her keys. “You’re going to have to lie down in the back seat. I’ll put a blanket over you.” He’s lanky enough that he’ll need to dangle his legs into the footwell—not the best situation for his injured leg, but once she gets him back to Sakura’s place he’ll be able to stretch it out again. A café is more likely than not to have plenty of ice, at least.

  
He hasn’t answered her; when she looks up he’s nodding slowly, like he’s still processing her statement. “Need a favor,” he says, enunciating as precisely as he can.

  
“You’re in no position to be asking favors of me.”

  
“No,” he agrees, meeting her eyes. “But you’ll do it anyway.”

  
“Will I?” she asks, curious despite everything, and he nods.

  
“Can’t- _ngh_.” He ducks his head once, taking a deep breath, then another. She waits him out, patient, and is rewarded when he looks straight into her eyes. “Can’t let them see.”

  
Sae understands at once, illumination like a flash grenade. His teammates—only high schoolers themselves—have no concept of the violence of cornered adults.

  
They don’t know what men of power will do to keep control.

  
“Not over those open wounds,” she finally says, and unlocks the back door. Kurusu eases himself in an inch at a time, and as much as she begrudges the wait she can’t tell him to move any faster, not when she sees how any remaining blood has drained from his face. He’ll need to be checked over by a doctor sooner than later. “You’ll need to recuperate for the night,” she continues, taking her emergency blanket from the back and tucking it over him. It breaks up his silhouette, until in the dark of the garage he could just be part of the seat. “I’ll bring you some things tomorrow. We’ll fix you up before they see.”

  
“Where…” Kurusu asks, barely a wheeze, tugging down the blanket to look at her. Even as groggy and drugged and pained as he is, his grey eyes are still sharp enough to pierce like a blade.

  
“Home,” she says simply, and his head falls back onto the seat.

  
“Home,” he sighs. His arm falls slack from under the blanket, dangling into the footwell as if he doesn’t have the strength to keep it up anymore. “Sojiro—“

  
“He’ll take you.” It’s a promise that sounds like a threat, but she doubts Kurusu can tell at this point.

  
He’d better. It’s not like there’s anywhere else she can bring this kid.

  
She stops at a convenience store on the way anyway, parking under the deepest shadows she can find. Who knows what tomorrow could bring? Best to have the supplies now than need them later. The kid (and she can’t think of him as anything but a child now, leader of the notorious Phantom Thieves or not) laying still and silent under the blanket. She thinks he’s unconscious.

  
It’s probably a mercy.

  
They’re almost the same skin tone, which makes things easier. She knows the shades to hide dark shadows under one’s eyes, to mask reddened cheeks, to build a wall between one’s flesh and the world. The first aid kit under her passenger seat will have to do for the immediate now; the amount of gauze and antibiotic ointment she’d have to buy otherwise would be eye-raising. Sakura-san will have to contribute. Perhaps she can send Makoto out for more supplies as well.

  
_Makoto_. They’re going to have to have a long, long talk.

  
The cashier smiles at her when she spills her handful of foundation and powder and crème onto the scanner. “Stocking up? We do have a pretty nice sale going on.” Sae just nods and grits her teeth, trying to pass it off as a smile. It works.

  
It’s a half hour more of back roads and wedging her way through city streets before she gets as close as she can to Leblanc. It’s not close enough. That area of Yongen-Jaya is notoriously unforgiving for multi-passenger motor vehicles.

  
They’re going to have to take the subway, and then Kurusu is going to have to walk. “Kurusu,” she says, then a little louder. “Kurusu-kun. I know that you’re in a fair amount of pain right now, but if you want to get to safety we need to move.”

  
There’s a long moment of silence before the sound of movement in the back. She tilts her rearview mirror to see Kurusu propping himself up on his elbows, just enough to look at her.

He’s almost completely unfocused, but he’s still trying his best.

  
That tenacity…it’s admirable.

  
“Where…” he slurs, pressing a palm to his eye and wincing.

  
“We’ll need to take the subway. It’s no more than an eighth of a mile, but we need to be fast. The last trains will be running soon.”

  
She’s all but dragging him by the time they reach the door of Leblanc, dark and cold at this hour of the night. She knows where Sakura lives, just around the corner, but Kurusu is so barely responsive she doesn’t think he could make it there and back. “I’m going to leave you here and get Sakura,” she tells him, gently helping him slide down the wall and shrugging off her suit jacket to drape over his head. There’s no one around, but it’s best to be safe than sorry. “Stay here. I won’t be long.”

  
He doesn’t respond; his eyes are barely open, hazy and unfocused and pained. That’s alright; he’s almost home free.

  
She’s at Sakura’s door almost before she realizes it, ringing the doorbell once, twice, a third time. It takes longer than she’d like for a light to flick on, but every time she checks her watch bare seconds have flicked by. It’s no more than two minutes before Sakura comes to the door, obviously annoyed.

  
His expression grows wary when he sees her.

  
“Kurusu is at Leblanc,” she says, holding up a hand to forestall anything he might say, “and he needs your help immediately.”


	2. Sojiro

Sojiro’d thought he was too old to feel this sort of fear, but between Futaba and his parolee he’s quickly learning just how wrong he is.

  
He’s fast asleep when the doorbell rings stridently, accompanied by a corresponding yelp from Futaba. It takes him a moment to catch his bearings and fumble for his glasses, and by that time the bell’s rung another two times. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” he grumbles, patting Futaba’s head as he passes her open door. “Stay here. It’s probably not important.”

  
“Kay,” she says obediently, and he hears the door close behind her.

  
It’s for the best; Nijima is standing out there, coatless and grim. He checks his watch; it’s approaching two in the morning.

  
Before he can say anything, she holds up a hand with an expression that makes his blood run cold. “Kurusu is at Leblanc, and he needs your help immediately.”

  
He’d known the kid was a Phantom Thief for some time, even known that Futaba was helping them somehow, doing whatever she did in her room. He’d known that the Phantom Thieves were the police’s number-1 target, objectively.

  
None of that prepares him for the sight of the boy who’s been living in his attic for the last six months sprawled limp and motionless across the doorsill of his café.

  
Nijima swears and rushes to kneel at his side, propping his head up and pulling one eyelid open. Sojiro catches a glimpse of a swath of bruising on his face in the weak light of the streetlamp. What did they—

“Sakura-san, we need to get him inside as soon as possible,”Nijima says, her voice tight. “He likely needs medical attention, but before that he needs to be safe and warm. You can provide that for him, correct?” Her gaze fixes upon him like a nuclear strike, direct and unavoidable. He nods once in response. “Will you unlock the door?”

  
As he fumbles the keys out of his pocket, he hears her murmuring to the kid, much more gently than he’s ever heard her sound before. “Kurusu-kun. You made it here, we just have to get you upstairs. You can rest there. You’ll be safe.”

  
There’s a soft, wounded noise, just a little catch of breath, but that’s more vulnerability than the kid’s shown in front of him in the last half a year. Futaba won’t tell him what they do when they’re doing Phantom Thief stuff, but he’s seen the kid walking stiff, or limping for a while. He’s never heard him make a sound.

  
He’d thought it was admirable before.

  
Now he wishes he’d been a little more proactive in offering his help.

  
When he turns around the kid’s on his feet, but barely. Nijima has his arm over her shoulder, but he’s not bearing weight on one leg, and in the light of the café he looks white as a sheet. It makes the bruises and the swelling on his face even more prominent. The bags under his eyes make him look like a cadaver.

  
He winces at the light, looking around as if he’s just realizing where they are. When his gaze lands on Sojiro he pauses, then—

  
Tries to straighten up.

  
It doesn’t go well; when pressure lands on his other leg he cries out and staggers, almost overbalancing Nijima.

  
Sojiro doesn’t even think about it; he ducks forward under the kid’s free arm, getting him off that leg again. “Don’t be stupid. You don’t need to stand on ceremony for me.”

  
His breath is labored, and when Sojiro looks over the kid is staring resolutely at the ground. “Sojiro-san—“ he slurs, the ugly cut at the side of his mouth tugging downward.

  
Sojiro just shakes his head. “Come on. Talk later. We’ll get you upstairs first.”

  
It’s a hell of a trial getting the three of them up the stairs in one piece, and the kid’s shaking by the end. His skin’s clammy and cool to the touch, and when he looks at Nijima she just shakes her head with that pinch-faced look. “If you can get him settled,” she says, “I’ve got some supplies in my bag downstairs. I’ll be right back.”

  
Get him settled, eh? With all those bruises on his face, and the way he holds himself, there’s probably more under his clothes. They need to come off so himself and Nijiima can see the damage.

  
He’s never come home this beat-up before. Sojiro’s a perceptive guy, he would’ve noticed. Whatever happened tonight is something new and different and ugly.

  
And now that he thinks about it, he’d seen the rest of the kid’s friends walking Futaba home earlier. They’d all looked tense and drawn, and Futaba had just grunted at him before she disappeared into her room.

  
When he looks closer, the kid’s wrists are chafed raw and bloody.

  
Like he’s been struggling in handcuffs.

  
“What happened?” he murmurs, gently tugging the sleeves of his jacket up to take a closer look. The kid’s mouth turns up a bit at the edges, bitter and victorious.

  
“We won,” he says, simple and hoarse. “We did what we set out to do.”

  
“If this is winning, I don’t wanna see who lost,” Sojiro mutters. “Come on. Lets get your jacket off, at least. Can you lift your arms?”

  
He can’t.

  
But he tries his best, and by the time Nijima comes back upstairs with her arms full of first aid suppliiies he’s mostly exposed, bloody undershirt draped over a chair, shoes and coat and pants tossed aside to lay where they fell.

  
The bruising on his stomach and ribs is concerning. The clear bootprint-shaped one on his thigh is horrifying. He looks like he’s been through a bad movie version of an interrogation.

  
Nijima looks like she’s thinking the same thing. “This isn’t going to be enough,” she says in frustration. “We can clean off the worst of those cuts and bruises, but he’s going to need actual medical attention, and sooner rather than later. But we can’t take him out in public.”

  
“Why not?” Sojiro asks, already dabbing at the worst of the cuts on the kid’s face with a damp cloth, rinsing it in the bowl of warm water Nijima had brought up with her. He’s going to need to bleach it later.

  
“Because the police think he’s dead.”

  
It’s chilling, how easily she’s able to say that. He looks at her sharply, but she’s too preoccupied gently wrapping gauze around the kid’s chafed wrists. “What do you mean?”

  
“If you haven’t seen it on the news, you will soon.” Nijima won’t look at him, examining the scrapes on the kid’s knuckles. “They caught the leader of the Phantom Thieves. They interrogated a confession out of him. And then he stole a gun from a guard and committed suicide.”

  
The flare of fury he feels is at once alarming and comforting. “Were you behind this?!”

  
“I had nothing to do with this.” She finally meets his eyes. He searches her face for any sign she’s lying to him. “I was heading the investigation of the Phantom Thieves, yes. But I was taken off once I received a calling card myself. I was there to get the story straight from him. Nothing more. The Phantom Thieves contacted me after I’d left, telling me how to escort him out of the building.”

  
“And you did.”

  
“And I did.” She shakes her head, looking back down to her task. “The Phantom Thieves…they’re nothing like I thought they would be. I was expecting a group of ruthless criminals, not…” She gestures to the kid, bruised and battered and bloody. He looks like he’s unconscious. It’s probably for the best. “Did you know?”

  
“Not until recently.” He looks down at his bowl. The water is tinged a disgusting puce between the dirt and the blood. “Did he rat the others out?”

  
“I couldn’t get a word out of him.” There’s almost a hint of amusement in his voice. “Even after all that. I don’t know if I’ve ever met a more loyal fool in my life.”

  
Sojiro thinks about the kids that fill his café; the two spunky blonds, always biting at each other like kittens play-fighting, the student council president looking at them with bemused amusement, the tall artist who inhales his curry like he’s never had a good meal in his life, the quiet curly-haired one that brings him vegetables.

  
And Futaba, sitting among them happy and beaming.

  
The kid knows what he’s got. Sojiro is….proud.

  
“Don’t tell Futaba,” the kid rasps. Sojiro glances back down; his eyes are still barely open, and Sojiro can’t tell what he’s looking at. “She’ll know soon enough, but. Please.”

  
His gaze drifts to the side. He raises one bandaged hand up, as in explanation and entreaty.

  
Sojiro understands. “She won’t hear it from me,” he promises. “You need anything? Food? Drink?”

  
“No food till we get him looked at,” Nijima says immediately. “I know there’s a back-alley doctor somewhere around here, we can call her in the morning—“

  
“Takemi-san,” the kid says weakly. “We’ve met. Tell her it’s about her guinea pig.”

  
Nijima shoots him a sharp look that Sojiro wants to mimic. “Is she—“

  
“No,” the kid shakes his head and drops his arm. “Always gonna be no.”

  
“He needs to rest,” Sojiro says abruptly, standing up and thrusting the bowl of water away from him. “Nijima-san, could you dump this? And I need some ice from the freezer, there’s plastic bags in the drawer by the sink and dish towels hanging above.”

  
She takes it, obviously unhappy, trotting down the stairs in those ridiculous heels. Once she’s out of earshot Sojiro turns to the kid, resting the back of his hand on Akira’s forehead like he used to do with Futaba when she was feverish. He’s still alarmingly cool and clammy, and clearing the blood and dust off his face made the bruising and abrasions look worse. “They really did a number on you, didn’t they?” he murmurs.

  
“…Didn’t tell them ‘bout Futaba, Boss,” he slurs in response. His eyes are closed completely, but he rolls his head into Sojiro’s touch like a much younger child seeking comfort. It pulls at something in Sojiro’s chest. Did his own parents use to do this for him? The kid’s never really spoken of his family, or of anyone waiting for him back home.

  
Are they waiting for him?

  
“I know,” he says through a suddenly tight throat. “I know. Rest up, kid. We’ll get you looked at in the morning.”

  
Akira sighs, face wrinkling in pain before it smooths back into neutrality, a practiced mask that makes him choke up again. “…Thanks.”

  
“Don’t thank me,” he says softly as he stands. “What kinda guardian would I be if I didn’t take good care of my charge?”

  
He thinks he hears Akira murmur something as he walks towards the stairs, but he can’t make out exactly what. Sojiro pauses and looks over before he flicks the light, but at this distance Akira is just an indecipherable mass under the blankets.

  
He tops off the fuel in the space heater and nudges it up a notch before he leaves. It gets chilly in this attic.

  
When he gets downstairs Nijima is staring into the freezer, a plastic bag held in her hands and the dish towel draped over her arm. She doesn’t look up until he shoves a mug of coffee under her nose. “I want an explanation of what they did to him,” he says flatly, “and I want it now.”

  
So she tells him.

  
Sojiro almost wishes he hadn’t asked.


	3. Tae

The sun’s hardly up; Tae has barely unlocked her doors and sat down to check her paperwork for the day when an unlikely pair strides into her clinic like they own the place. She recognizes them immediately—Sakura, the owner of the café down the street, and the infamous Nijima Sae, prosecutor extraordinaire, undefeated on her field of battle.

It’s clear they’re uncomfortable with each other, and clearer still that they have some reason to be here. Nijima looks like she wants to sniff around like a police dog, and Sakura’s frown could sour cream in a heartbeat.

Interesting.

“Can I help you?” she asks casually, balancing disinterested and polite in a way she mastered years ago, studiously glancing over the file in her hand.

Nijima steps up first. Unsurprising. “We’re looking for Takemi-san,” she says, brisk and no-nonsense.

“You’re looking at her.”

Sakura moves forward then, giving her a brief once-over. It looks like he wants to say something, like comment on her appearance, but holds his tongue. “We need your help.”

“Most people do,” she drawls, “else they wouldn’t come here.”

“It’s not for us. It’s for…” He hesitates, looking uncomfortable. “Your guinea pig.”

Tae’s blood runs cold.

She knows her little lab rat is a Phantom Thief, maybe even _the_ Phantom Thief—she’s known since the Thieves took care of her little problem for her. She saw the news this morning. She’d allowed herself a bare moment of grief.

If Sakura and Nijima have paired up like this looking for her help, things must be bad. She spins her chair around and reaches under her desk for her go-bag. “Where is he?”

“Leblanc,” Nijima says, sounding tense. “How soon can you be there?”

“I’ll lock up the clinic, put a sign up. It won’t take me more than ten minutes.”

“Hurry,” Sakura says, spinning on his heel and striding out the door. Nijima follows, looking back once, but Tae’s already heading back to her examination room, shoving boxes and bandages and pills into her already cramped duffel bag almost at random.

She’s glad she did when she first gets a look at Kurusu.

He’s not quite conscious when she walks in, tucked under a thick blanket in Leblanc’s spacious attic. His face is pale as milk, making the dark circles under his eyes and the myriad bruises and abrasions that cover his face stand out all the more. They’ve obviously been cleaned and tended to, however rudimentarily; she sees the sheen of antibiotic ointment anointing the deeper cut near his lip.

His eyes flutter open when she leans over him to get a closer look at his face. Tae can see her own reflection in them, grey as a thundercloud and deep as the ocean in a storm, before he flinches away.

It looks like a reactive move, instinctive, defensive. The split-second expression of pain that sweeps across his face immediately after tells Tae all she needs to know.

“What have you gotten yourself into now, guinea pig?” she murmurs almost to herself, sinking to her knees beside the futon. Sakura hovers behind her; Nijima stayed downstairs with a pot of coffee and her laptop. Tae gently tugs the blanket off of Kurusu and hisses between her teeth. “Nasty work, here.”

Most of the bruising is nothing to write home about. It’s nasty, that’s for sure, but most bruises are. It’s the patches over his ribs and his stomach that worry her.

There’s also a half-melted ice pack resting on his thigh. She takes a peek under it and hisses again; the bruising here is almost black, the size of her outstretched hand. “Looks like you had some fun last night.”

“I wouldn’t call it fun,” Sakura mutters. Tae chooses to ignore it, slipping her stethoscope out of her bag.

His lungs are clear, but his breathing is labored and pained. He flinches away when she runs her fingers over his ribs. “Cracked but not broken. Lungs are fine, so’s his heart. Let’s see those eyes while we’re up here.”

It’s concerning that his pupils are two different sizes. They both respond to light, and he weakly tries to track her finger when she wiggles it in front of him. Sakura murmurs something to her about a truth serum, and her brow furrows. She doesn’t know what sort of drug that is, and until she can be sure it’s out of his system she doesn’t feel comfortable prescribing him any sort of pain medicine.

“’S fine,” he murmurs when she tells him, delicately manipulating his leg to see what sort of range of motion he has with it. It’s clearly painful to move it at all; she plucks the melting ice pack off and hands it to Sakura, deftly wrapping an ace bandage around the bruising.

“Cold compresses for no more than twenty minutes at a time. Take off the ace bandage and replace it afterwards. Keep it up for the next 48 hours, every two to three hours. If there’s no more bleeding or bruising or swelling, you can switch to cold for ten minutes, warm for ten minutes.”

Sakura nods and goes to bring it downstairs. Once he’s fully gone, Tae leans in to look at Kurusu’s face again.

He’s looking back at her with a guarded expression, much more focused than he was when she got here. Those grey eyes of his, even blackened and surrounded by bruising, are still so clear.

She’d expect nothing else from him.

“Takemi-san,” he says hoarsely, blinking at her. “This may seem a little forward, but…can you apply some makeup to my face?”

Tae doesn’t startle easily, but the question makes her rear back. “Guinea pig, I’m afraid to break it to you, but there’s not much that I can do to make you beautiful right now.”

He laughs sharply once, more a bark than anything else, and clearly immediately regrets it. “I’ll settle for not looking like someone beat me in the face. My friends are supposed to stop by later today, and…”

He trails off, gesturing weakly. His wrists are cleaned and freshly wrapped in both gauze and a self-adhesive covering. She’d only had fluorescent pink and green in stock when she’d made her mad dash through her examination room, and the bright colors only serve to wash out his skin more.

“Let’s see.” She runs the pads of her fingers over the worst abrasion on his cheek. He winces but keeps still under her touch. It’s scabbing up quite nicely, though she’d prefer to cover it with a bandage instead of foundation. “I suppose we can make something work. But not for long—you’ll wash it off immediately after they leave, or you’ll have me to answer to.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says with a grimace.

“Good boy.”

He directs her to the bag of foundation and concealer lying on the sofa. It’s all fairly high quality—she raises her eyebrows when she sees the brand, but all he does is shrug at her.

She talks him through every movement she makes as she gently covers his face, swipes and blends and conceals until he looks almost normal, until you wouldn’t be able to tell at a glance that someone had slapped him full across the mouth, among other things. He nods along, mostly silent, though the corners of his eyes tighten when she passes the sponge over his abrasions.

Serves him right, wanting to put makeup over his fresh wounds.

But she understands wanting to put one’s bravest face to the world.

“Mind you,” she tells him as she packs everything away and slides the bag under his bed, “I can’t do anything for your knuckles and wrists, or your thigh. You’re going to have to find a way to hobble on your own. But _not for long._ ” The look she pins him with is as deadly as she can make it. “I don’t want you standing on that longer than five, ten minutes at a time, you hear me? There’s no reason to do more damage than those police bastards already did. Don’t sit for long, either. You should be confined to bed rest for at least two weeks, with the way your ribs are.”

“Thank you, Takemi-san,” he says dutifully, already trying to sit upright. “But there’s no time for bed rest. There’s a lot of work to be done.”

Tae eyes him up and down, sticks her pointer finger out deliberately, and pokes his shoulder. He crumples back down to the futon with a hiss of pain and a look of betrayal.

“Bed. Rest. I may not need you for clinical trials anymore, but with all the work I put into keeping you healthy, I expect to see some returns. You stay in this bed till your friends get here, and if they’re not gone in half an hour you get back into it regardless.” She clicks her tongue, looking over at the stairs. “Any way I can convince you to at least stay up here and let them come to you?”

It’s a lost battle, she knows that before she said anything, but seeing his grimace makes her smile. “Be gentle with yourself, Kurusu. You had a hard night. If you push yourself now, you’re just going to be making things worse for yourself in the long run.”

He nods; he understands.

She leaves him at that, though she stops and looks back at the head of the stairs. “Hey, Kurusu.”

When he looks over, she smiles again. “I’m glad that you’re not dead.”

“Me too,” he says wryly, though she sees the spark in his eyes. He gets it.

When she leaves, Sakura passes her a warm coffee in a thick cardboard cup. It smells divine. She inhales gratefully as she wraps her fingers around it; it’s still chill, even in the early morning sun.

Well, there’s still much to do, and not a lot of time to do it in.

Tae’s day has barely started, after all. There’s more to save in Yongen-Jaya than one beloved guinea pig.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ps: i did eventually escape the airport, in case any of you were wondering ;D


	4. Ryuji

Something’s wrong with Akira.

Ryuji’s not the most observant person in Tokyo, he’ll be the first to admit that, but even he can see that something’s off. Akira usually moves like a cat, like a jazz song, all fluid and graceful and shit like that; he’s the first on his feet and the last to sit down, and he _never stops moving._ He’ll flip a pencil between his fingers or spin his phone on the backs of his knuckles, but Akira is never still.

Not like now.

He’d tensed the instant Ryuji’d flung an arm around him when he walked in the door, but Ryuji hadn’t been able to help himself—all that planning and shit’d gone so far over his head he’d tuned it out, trusting in the people smarter than him to do their best.

And they did, cause Akira’s here, alive and breathing and smirking and _wrong._

The jarring sensation keeps Ryuji from speaking much after he notices. He can’t help noticing everything—the way he sits, like he’s got a stick in his hoodie, rather than his usual slouch; the way his smile slips on and off his face like an oil slick when no one’s watching; the way, every now and then, his breath hitches.

The way he doesn’t get up to send them off when Boss starts hinting they should all get out of his café.

Everyone else is so giddy, so relieved and happy, chattering at each other as they head for the door. Their words ring uselessly in Ryuji’s ears. He nods and smiles along with them, and just after they all step outside he pats his pockets. “Oh, shoot, left my phone inside,” he says, in a tone that makes Makoto look at him sharply. “Go on ahead, I’ll catch right up.”

He doesn’t give them a chance to reply, just opens the door as quietly as he can and slips back in.

It’s so different, now that everyone’s gone. The silence is overwhelming, makes it easy for Ryuji to catch the sounds of labored breathing, of hushed voices. Boss is hovering beside the booth, face serious and drawn, with Morgana sitting on the table unusually silent.

And Akira—

He stands up out of the booth, every motion stiff and jerky like some sort of creepy puppet.

He takes one step and lurches into Boss’s side, and Ryuji’s stomach tries to flip itself into his mouth.

He recognizes that motion because he lived through it himself, when Kamoshida’d fucked his leg and then fucked his whole team over. The memory of the agony, the ache, the limping and the cramps and the sheer frustrated helplessness he’d felt hits Ryuji like a tidal wave, threatens to swamp him.

Maybe he makes a noise, because Akira’s head shoots up, gaze fixing on him with pinpoint accuracy. “I thought you’d left,” he says, and it’s not accusatory. It’s just tired. Pained.

“The hell did they do to you,” Ryuji says weakly, and all but rushes forward to get his shoulder under Akira’s arm. “Don’t fuck around with leg injuries, man, unless you wanna end up like me.”

He hears Boss make a surprised grunt from the other side, and Morgana says something probably annoying, but all Ryuji can look at is Akira, his mouth set in a pained grimace. There’s something weird about his skin. He slowly puts more of his weight on Ryuji, and Ryuji bears up under it, holds him steady and firm.

Boss steps away after a moment, gives Ryuji a searching look. “You think you can manage to get him up the stairs?”

“Course I can,” Ryuji says immediately.

“Hm. Watch out for his ribs. Come down and get me if you need anything.” He turns away, but Ryuji can see the tension in the line of his shoulders, the way he starts scrubbing fiercely at the booth they’ve just left.

“Ribs?” Ryuji hisses, but Akira just shakes his head. There’s sweat beading at his temples, making his hair stick to his forehead. His jaw is clenched.

They get up the stairs.

“Bed,” Akira says when Ryuji hesitates. His voice is thread and hoarse, as if just coming up the stairs has exhausted him. “Can you get me some water, too.”

“Yeah man, anything.” He helps Akira lower himself down. “Do you, uh—I mean, I’m sure you’ve already talked to someone about it, but—“

“I’ll tell you everything,” he says, his eyes closed behind his stupid fake glasses. “Just—water first, please.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

He brings the water. Akira doesn’t drink it; he has Ryuji get him a washcloth instead, and wets it down.

When he wipes his face with it, Ryuji hisses. He’s bruised and battered and a little bit bloody, where the cut at the corner of his lip splits.

When he speaks, it’s quiet and methodical. He tells Ryuji everything in short, blunt detail, all the while revealing the bruises he’d hid from the rest of their friends with every wipe of the washcloth. Under the makeup he’s wearing he’s pale, almost translucent. Ryuji feels like if he held a candle up to him, he’d be able to see the light shine right through.

He doesn’t recognize the feeling of rage burning beneath his breastbone until his fist hits the wall, and then he’s almost _blinded_ with it.

“I’ll kill ‘em,” he seethes. “I’ll find every last one of the bastards that did this to you and—“

Akira’s hand shoots out to grab his wrist. When he looks down, Akira’s….smiling.

“I couldn’t ask for a better friend,” he says, and just like that his anger banks, settling into a hard bright lump in his throat.

“Nah, man,” he says, letting Akira tug him closer to sit on the edge of the futon. “A really good friend would’ve taken your place.”

“You couldn’t have. They wanted the leader of the Phantom Thieves, they wanted a scapegoat. I wouldn’t have let any of you go even if you tried.”

“Like you could’ve stopped me,” Ryuji scoffs, and Akira grins again, bright and wild. His hand’s still clenched around Ryuji’s wrist tight enough to hurt. He doesn’t say anything. He can feel the tremble. “You’ve seen a doctor?” Akira nods. “It time to ice your leg yet? I’ll grab you some from downstairs. You hungry?”

“Nauseous,” Akira admits. “They haven’t given me anything for the pain yet. Don’t want it to interact with anything still in my system.” His nails dig in as Ryuji’s fist clenches. “It’s fine.”

“That’s the stupidest effin’ thing you’ve ever said to me,” Ryuji mutters. “What part of this is fine?”

“The part where I’m alive,” Akira says steadily. “The part where all of you are safe. The part where we get to rest and recuperate before we take that bastard down for good.”

Ryuji turns his wrist just far enough to wrap his fingers around Akira’s own. “We’re with you,” he says fiercely, like an oath drawn in blood. “Every step of the way.”

“Even the gimpy ones?” Akira asks wryly, and Ryuji laughs even as he nods. “That’s all anyone could ever ask for.”

Ryuji fetches him ice and ginger tea for the nausea, and sits by his bed until he falls into a restless sleep. Once he’s down, Morgana hops down from the windowsill, pacing over to sit at his feet. “Why are you still here?” he asks, but softly.

“Well,” Ryuji answers just as quiet, flicking through the group chat on his phone, “if he wakes up he’s gonna need someone with opposable thumbs to help him out, isn’t he? He doesn’t have crutches yet.”

“You should go to the doctor and get him some.”

“Like _hell_ I will. She’s _terrifying._ ”

“Afraid of a woman, Ryuji? That’s sad, even for you.”

“I have a healthy respect for anyone who knows that much about the human body. Have you seen her? She looks like she could make my spleen fall out if she glared long enough.”

They bicker gently for hours, all the while watching the smooth rise and fall of Akira’s chest. At some point, Morgana hops up into his lap to glare into his face.

He never gets down.

When Ryuji wakes with a start to the sun streaming in through the curtains, Akira has his phone pointed at him—more importantly, where Morgana is curled, snoring, in his lap.

It takes every ounce of self-restraint in him to keep from groaning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eta: i have [ the first draft of this chapter](https://cant-icle.tumblr.com/post/161909696651/aftermath-scrapped-ryuji-chapter) before i decided to move it later down the timeline, if any of y'all wanna see what could've been :3c


	5. Akira

“ _Don’t expect to walk out of here in one piece,” they’d said, and laughed._

_He hadn’t._

_And he didn’t._

_He just hadn’t realized how much it would hurt._

 

Maybe it’s because of the drug still sinking its teeth into his skull. Maybe it’s exhaustion; maybe he’s just imagining it.

But Akira will forever after swear he feels the moment Akechi leaves his cognitive corpse in the Metaverse and walks away, like the moment a soap bubble bursts in your face.

It’s a thrill akin to no other, the biggest heist the Phantom Thieves have ever pulled, Bre’r Rabbit in the briar patch slipping away right under the fox’s nose. So many pieces fractured in so many ways, hinged together on the barest of possibilities.

He’d bartered with his life, and he’d won. His mouth stretches into Joker’s familiar grin almost involuntarily.

What he doesn’t expect is, once the adrenaline rush has worn off, how much it _hurts._

His mind is already trying to blur the details of the interrogation. He doesn’t remember faces or voices, just loud noises and hard impacts. His chest aches every time he breathes. His wrists burn, raw and chafing at the cuffs of his shirt. His head throbs with every beat of his heart, pulse pounding in his temples until it’s almost deafening.

It’s so loud he doesn’t register Nijima-san standing in front of him until her fingers touch his face. “Kurusu,” she says. He can’t parse her expression, can barely focus on her face. “Your teammates have contacted me. We’re getting you out of here.”

“Excellent,” he says, or tries to. His throat is parched after all the talking she’s made him do, and nothing comes out but a dry squeak. He tries again; or he would, if his head would just stop spinning, nausea making his gorge rise and stopping his voice entirely. He barely manages to avoid emptying his stomach all over the interrogation room table.

Nijima-san says something else, a low unregistered buzz in his ears. Her voice is almost nothing like Makoto’s; her words drill into his skull like angered wasps. He doesn’t realize she’s helping him up until her arm dips under his shoulders and hefts.

He barely manages to avoid emptying his stomach all over her shoes, but that’s because he empties it all over the interrogation room table instead. Lucky for the both of them that there’s not much in there, just bile and ropes of saliva that hang from his mouth for a stretch of time that feels like forever.

Everything _burns._

His ribs burst into painful clamoring the second he heaves, threatening to set off a chain reaction of pained choking only stopped when he tries to step back from the table. The screaming agony that radiates up from his thigh threatens to take his leg out from beneath him entirely.

Everything blurs after that.

Even days later he can’t remember much of his daring escape. He has flashes of images that come and go, the memory of Nijima-san’s voice hissed and urgent in his ears, the awful journey on the subway, curling up on the doorstop of Leblanc and wondering if this, if this, if _this_ one was the moment he’d die. His entire world had narrowed to the existence of pain.

His next clear memory is Sojiro’s warm hand and soft voice. He doesn’t remember the words but he does remember the tone, and the feeling of absolute safety, of utter surety that he was _home._ He thinks he might have cried. If he did, Sojiro hasn’t said anything about it.

Takemi-san’s been by twice now. He doesn’t recall much about the first visit past asking her to help him conceal his bruises; he knows she talked him through how to do it, but he’ll be damned if he retained any of it. The second time was just this morning, the second day of his “death.”

(He really didn’t expect being dead to hurt this much.)

“Eyes up here,” Takemi-san says, and Akira dutifully lifts his head. She shines a light into his eyes, making the dull headache at his temples roar back into life with a vengeance; she listens to his ribs and watches him take a few staggered, lurching steps around the room before she orders him back to bed. “And I mean it this time, Kurusu,” she says sternly. “Tell your friends whatever you want—that you’re down with the flu, intestinal parasites, celebratory sex—“

Ryuji, from where he’s been hovering by the doorway, barely stifles a scandalized noise. She ignores him, her back to him, but Akira sees the sparkle in her eyes and the upward curve of her lip. He can’t let her get her fingers into Ryuji; he’d be far too easy for her to play with.

“—but I don’t want you to leave this bed more than necessary for a week at the minimum,” she finishes. “I don’t care what sort of projects you have going on. You’re dead, you don’t have to go to school, and anything else can wait.”

“Understood,” Akira parrots, smothering the grin that threatens when she narrows her eyes at him.

“It better be. Now, any of the more common cocktails they might have jabbed you with should be almost completely out of your system by now. If they gave you something different, well…” She shrugs. “But it doesn’t seem likely. Your reaction times are nearly back to baseline, you’re tracking well, not slurring. We can start cautiously giving you medication for the pain.”

“Effin’ finally,” he thinks he hears Ryuji mutter, but it’s covered by a hiss from Morgana. All Akira’s focus is on the little canister of round white pills Takemi-san is presenting him with.

“One every eight hours, same as your normal ibuprofen. Don’t double up your doses. Shouldn’t be addictive, but if you think it’s getting there let me know immediately. Start at—“ she checks her watch—“noon. Take it with food, preferably.” She shoots a glance at Sojiro, who nods and heads past Ryuji downstairs. Akira guesses he’s going to start smelling curry cooking any moment now. “It’s going to taste awful, but I’m sure you’ll be able to power through it.”

_Anything to help dull all this,_ Akira carefully does not say, and sets the pill bottle on the nightstand. “Thank you, Takemi-san.”

“Rest up, guinea pig,” she tells him fondly as she leaves.

As soon as she reaches the bottom Morgana is across the room and onto the bed, stepping delicately across Akira’s lap and rubbing his face on his arm. “Good to know you’re on the mend, isn’t it?” he asks cheerfully, ears pricked.

“Yeah, but bed rest for a week,” Ryuji muses. “That’s gonna suck. What’re we gonna tell the others? You know they’re gonna wanna be around as much as they can.”

Akira sighs and brings his hand up to prod gently at his temples. “I’m going to have to tell them sooner or later,” he murmurs. “Even if I can avoid them for a week, it’s just going to bring up questions that I don’t have the brain to answer right now.”

“So what’s the problem?” Ryuji asks, crossing the room towards him. His gait is smooth; only someone who really knew him would be able to see the tell-tale hitch disguised in his step.

“I can’t handle all of them at once.” It’s not something he wants to admit, but his nerves are still fried. His hands haven’t stopped shaking. His adrenaline levels crest jaggedly at every sharp noise, every sudden movement from the corner of his eye. Morgana’s been careful to move only when he can see, or to announce where he’s going when Akira’s not looking, and Ryuji is too… _Ryuji_ to set off his flinch reflex.

One at a time he can handle them. Crowded around him in a happy chattering mob…not so much.

“So we set visiting hours,” Ryuji says, hooking his ankle around a chair and dragging it to the side of the futon. “Give ‘em a schedule.”

“Like a hospital?” Morgana says dubiously. “Won’t the first person just end up telling the others?”

“Not if we ask ‘em not to. You really think any one of us’d do somethin’ Akira asked us not to?”

“Really?” Akira asks, smiling wryly. It tugs at the cut at the corner of his mouth, but he ignores it.

“Hush, we’re not talking to you.”

He _laughs._ It’s sudden and unplanned and it _hurts,_ oh, it sets his ribs on fire and his head spinning, but it feels so _good_ at the same time. He laughs until every time he breathes it feels like his ribcage is collapsing, until tears form in his eyes.

When he can breathe without feeling like a broken vase in packing tape again, he wipes his eyes and nods. “A schedule, then.”

It goes…not as well as he would’ve liked, but not as poorly as he would’ve thought.

Ann takes it the worst. He’s glad that she can’t manifest Carmen in the real world, because Leblanc would be a deliciously coffee-scented shell by the time she’s done roasting him. Makoto is almost as bad; between the two of them they demand a catalogue of every injury, everything the interrogators did to him. He gives them each a dry, itemized list; Makoto folds hers and tucks it primly into her purse with a look that makes him glad he’s not on the other side of her fists, but Ann crumples it in a clenched fist and paces, muttering, for at least thirty seconds before she settles back down at his side.

Futaba takes it better than he thought she would, though that may be because she bugged his phone. She won’t confirm or deny it.

Haru is worried, obviously, but conceals it well. She’s a blessing, their gentle garden girl, a warm voice and cool hands, and in his more medicated moments Akira finds himself thinking of how wonderful a mother she’ll make one day.

Yusuke… Yusuke takes one look at the bruises on his flesh and blanches, his fingers gently turning Akira’s head this way and that in the light. “You better not be thinking about paintin’ this,” Ryuji mutters, and Yusuke makes a scornful noise.

“What color could I mix that could capture this complexity, this visage of victory marred with the stains of struggle? No, I merely wish to see every angle for myself. I am grateful that you decided to reveal your true face to me.”

He never knows what to say when Yusuke gets all sincere and poetic, and so he settles by saying nothing.

“He was right, you know,” Morgana says that night, tucked into a purring ball beside Akira’s face. “It’s good for you to show your true face to them. You wear so many masks as it is.”

“I know,” Akira murmurs. And he does.

His phone vibrates beside him; he picks it up to check. It’s the personal group chat; he’s missed a good portion of the conversation already.

 

**Ann:** So it’s settled? We’ll all be meeting up at one?

**Makoto:** Yes, sounds good.

**Ryuji:** yo that’s gr8 n all but did anyone tell akira

**Ann:** He’ll find out soon enough!

**Ryuji:** r00d

**@Akira has been pinged!**

**@Akira has been pinged!**

**@Akira has been pinged!**

**Futaba:** ryuji dont spam!!!! he could be sleeping!!

**@Akira has been pinged!**

**Ryuji:** you dont just spring a thing on a dude its rude

**Yusuke:** That was strangely poetic. I wouldn’t have expected it of you, Ryuji.

**Ryuji:** the hell is that sposed to mean

**Akira:** Meeting up at one where?

**Ann:** Oh, there you are! Took you long enough.

**Ann:** Yusuke wants hot pot again, and the attic is the only place big and secure enough to have us all.

**Ann:** It’s a Sunday so it should be okay, right?

**Akira:** Yeah. Just come one by one. Don’t give anyone any reason to be suspicious.

**Makoto:** That’s an excellent idea. Are we all understood?

**Ryuji:** ye

**Yusuke:** Yes. I should have enough money for train fare…

**Makoto:** Then it’s settled.

**Akira:** You all planned this just to keep me on bed rest, didn’t you.

**Ann:** ☆⌒（＊＾∇゜）v

 

He drops his phone onto the bed with a groan and a rueful smile.

“You’ve got a long day tomorrow, it looks like,” Morgana yawns, putting one tiny paw on his forehead. “You should get some sleep. We’ve still got a lot of work ahead of us.”

Akira makes a sleepy noise of agreement and closes his eyes, safe and secure.

He has nothing to fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and there we have it! i didn't have any sort of defined ending for this story when i started it, it was really just a reason for me to write comfort, because my boy deserves all the comfort and support and love he can get forever and always; then it was just going to be the adults, because reasons? but ryuji wormed his way in there and i couldn't stop him. 
> 
> i considered doing one chapter for each phantom thief as well, but that would've just dragged on pointlessly, and i don't have a good enough grasp of either yusuke, haru, or makoto to really do them justice. (i spent like, two minutes with haru in my first playthrough ;; i'm going to change that in my new game +)
> 
> thank you, every last one of you, for your kind words and your kudos and your support!!! this fandom is just such a wonderful welcoming nice place to be, it makes me want to never stop writing （*´▽｀*）
> 
> my persona tumblr is [cant-icle!](http://cant-icle.tumblr.com) please feel free to come hit me up there, i love talking about everything in this game and out of it!!

**Author's Note:**

> distances have been fudged, as i have no clue how far away the police station is from leblanc or any subway stations in particular, whoops


End file.
